Then, as if in the exuberance of its rejoicing it had broken some law of the kingdom of harmony, it sank, plumb-down, into the purifying fires again; where the old wailing, and the old struggle began, but with increased vehemence and aspiration. By degrees, the surrounding confusion and distress melted away into forms of harmony, which sustained the mounting cry of longing and prayer. Then all the cry vanished in a jubilant praise. Stronger and broader grew the fundamental harmony, and bore aloft the thanksgiving; which, at length, exhausted by its own utterance, sank peacefully, like a summer sunset, into a grey twilight of calm, with the songs of the summer birds dropping asleep one by one; till, at last, only one was left to sing the sweetest prayer for all, before he, too, tucked his head under his wing, and yielded to the restoring silence.

Then followed a pause. I glanced at Adela. She was quietly weeping.

But he did not leave the instrument yet. A few notes, as of the first distress, awoke; and then a fine manly voice arose, singing the following song, accompanied by something like the same music he had already played. It was the same feelings put into words; or, at least, something like the same feelings, for I am a poor interpreter of music:

 

Rejoice, said the sun, I will make thee gay With glory, and gladness, and holiday;

I am dumb, O man, and I need thy voice.

But man would not rejoice.

 

Rejoice in thyself said he, O sun;

For thou thy daily course dost run.

In thy lofty place, rejoice if thou can:

For me, I am only a man.

 

Rejoice, said the wind, I am free and strong; I will wake in thy heart an ancient song.

In the bowing woods-hark! hear my voice!

But man would not rejoice.

 

Rejoice, O wind, in thy strength, said he,

For thou fulfillest thy destiny.

Shake the trees, and the faint flowers fan: For me, I am only a man.

 

I am here, said the night, with moon and star; The sun and the wind are gone afar;

I am here with rest and dreams of choice.

But man would not rejoice.

 

For he said-What is rest to me, I pray,

Who have done no labour all the day?

He only should dream who has truth behind.

Alas! for me and my kind!

 

Then a voice, that came not from moon nor star, From the sun, nor the roving wind afar,

Said, Man, I am with thee-rejoice, rejoice!

And man said, I will rejoice!

 

“A wonderful physician this!” thought I to myself. “He must be a follower of some of the old mystics of the profession, counting harmony and health all one.”

He sat still, for a few moments, before the instrument, perhaps to compose his countenance, and then rose and turned to the company.

The colonel and Percy had entered by this time. The traces of tears were evident on Adela’s face, and Percy was eyeing first her and then Armstrong, with some signs of disquietude. Even during dinner it had been clear to me that Percy did not like the doctor, and now he was as evidently jealous of him.

A little general conversation ensued, and the doctor took his leave. The colonel followed him to the door. I would gladly have done so too, but I remained in the drawing-room. All that passed between them was: “Will you oblige me by calling on Sunday morning, half an hour before church-time, colonel?”

“With pleasure.”

“Will you come with me, Smith?” asked my friend, after informing me of the arrangement.

“Don’t you think I might be in the way?”

“Not at all. I am getting old and stupid. I should like you to come and take care of me. He won’t do Adela any good, I fear.”

“Why do you think so?”

“He has a depressing effect on her already. She is sure not to like him. She was crying when I came into the room after dinner.”

“Tears are not grief,” I answered; “nor only the signs of grief, when they do indicate its presence. They are a relief to it as well. But I cannot help thinking there was some pleasure mingled with those tears, for he had been playing very delightfully. He must be a very gifted man.”

“I don’t know anything about that. You know I have no ear for music.-That won’t cure my child anyhow.”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “It may help.”

“Do you mean to say he thinks to cure her by playing the piano to her? If he thinks to come here and do that, he is mistaken.”

“You forget, Cathcart, that I have had no more conversation with him than yourself. But surely you have seen no reason to quarrel with him already.”

“No, no, my dear fellow. I do believe I am getting a crusty old curmudgeon. I can’t bear to see Adela like this.”

“Well, I confess, I have hopes from the new doctor; but we will see what he says on Sunday.”

“Why should we not have called to-morrow?”

“I can’t answer that. I presume he wants time to think about the case.”

“And meantime he may break his neck over some gate that he can’t or won’t open.”

“Well, I should be sorry.”

“But what’s to become of us then?”

“Ah! you allow that? Then you do expect something of him?”

“To be sure I do, only I am afraid of making a fool of myself, and that sets me grumbling at him, I suppose.”

Next day was Saturday; and Mrs. Cathcart, Percy’s mother, was expected in the evening. I had a long walk in the morning, and after that remained in my own room till dinner time.